


v o i d

by SomeRainMustFall



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood, Depression, Gen, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23160334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeRainMustFall/pseuds/SomeRainMustFall
Summary: There's a void in Malcolm he's not sure can ever be filled.×Bad Things Happen Bingo 'depression' square.
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664860
Comments: 36
Kudos: 123





	v o i d

**Author's Note:**

> TW for fairly graphic descriptions of various self-harm behavior and a past suicide attempt.

There's nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He’s empty. 

Void. 

Hollow. 

Vacant. 

There's not any word in any book that could correctly describe what he feels.

What he... _doesn't_ feel.

There's just…

_Nothing_.

Malcolm's not sure when it got this bad. At this point, he's also not sure he's ever felt any different. Time melds, memories blur. Days pass, or maybe only hours. He's ten years old again, watching his father being led out of the house that would never be home again in cuffs. He's fifteen, bleeding out on Gil's bathroom floor and sobbing when he tries so desperately to save him. He's twenty-three and in his first week at Quantico, hazed by a group of older agents that made him, briefly, regret joining in the first place. 

He's thirty, and he's useless. He solves cases, but never quick enough to save them all. 

He will never save them all. All he can do is sleep, and sleep, and feel no less exhausted when he wakes.

There's nothing.

His stomach growls, and he doesn't care. His phone rings, and he _doesn't_ _care._

His limbs aren't his own. His body isn't real. 

He doesn't think he's alive. Not really. He's not sure how he can prove otherwise. 

He runs his hands down skin that doesn't feel like it's his, and starts to experiment. He pinches himself between two nails, over and over again, until he's covered in tiny bruises. He scrapes down his arms and chest until he's leaving raw, red lines, speckled with dots of purple and blue. He bites his lip until there are tears in his eyes and he feels a piece separate between his teeth. He refuses to take another breath until the crushing pain in his lungs is all he can focus on.

Not the nothingness.

Anything else but that.

Pain. He needs _pain_ , because it's all he ever _can_ feel, and at least it's something. At least it's not _nothing._

He bleeds, blood dripping down from his mouth, sharp copper on his tongue. He breathes, gasped and ragged heaves that shake his too-frail body. 

Blood moves through him, and his heart beats, again and again. He needs oxygen. His body is working. It's real, or at least real _enough_. 

He's alive, but there's _still nothing_. 

His brain feels like it's dissolving inside his skull, and he isn't even afraid of it if so. He wonders what it will be like to, for the first time, feel at peace, when he finally, mercifully is granted death.

He holds his breath again. He rips strands of hair out of his head. He peels the skin around his nails off.

It's not enough pain. It will _never_ be enough pain. 

His mind goes elsewhere. He finds himself in the bathroom before he knows what he’s doing, opening the cabinet under the sink and taking out what he hasn't touched in a long while. A little clear box, inside of which are several single-edged razors.

He's careful. He picks one and sterilizes it thoroughly. He pulls his sweatpants down and picks a spot that won't matter, that won't be seen, that will brush against clothes the most and pull with each movement, his hip.

And he marks it.

His muscles untense, finally. Ease comes over him in a wave, and he marks again. Again. Again. Draws on himself like it doesn't matter, because it doesn't, and watches the blood run down his leg in thick rivulets.

And then he sits down. Collapses, really. He leans against the wall and feels a smile on his lips, feels his eyelids heavy in contentment and runs his finger through the blood, lets it cover his fingers and smear across his skin.

Alive. Still alive. This is proof.

But he uses the blade to match the other side, because he can never bleed too much, and it's never so easy to just _stop._

No. It feels too good for that. The relief is too _addicting_ for that.

He can breathe again. For however long it lasts, he can breathe. 

He doesn't know he's fallen asleep until he wakes up to knocking on the door, his neck aching from where it's been lolled onto his chest.

_No._ Not his mother. Not her. God, she's the last person he wants to see, especially now. Not after how she'd reacted in his youth, when the first time she'd known about it was sitting across from him in the psych ward, with bandages wrapped up and down his arms. 

_'What will your children think, Malcolm? Your wife? What have you done to yourself? Those are permanent! You'll never be able to show your arms again. Oh, God, where else are they? Where else? Malcolm, what have you done?'_

And he'd cried. He'd cried because he'd already known he was ruined, but it hurt more to be faced with it. He'd cried because a new man had run therapy group that day, after she'd left, and he'd harassed him, too.

In front of the circle of other kids around his age, this man had told Malcolm to pull up his sleeves. He'd told Malcolm to show them the scars he'd been collecting. He'd told Malcolm that if he didn't want people to see, he wouldn't have done it. Malcolm must want them. Malcolm must be _proud_ of them.

_'Go ahead. Show them to us. It's what you want to do, isn't it? Have everyone see? Why else would you do that to yourself?'_

The others stared. Malcolm couldn't say anything but _no_. He said _no_ , with tears stinging in his eyes, and excused himself to the bathroom to cry so hard he'd heaved into the toilet and sobbed harder. 

No one had checked on him. The man faced no repercussions. Malcolm had been left to recover on his own, and rejoin group like nothing had happened. For a place that had otherwise been helping him fine, that moment stuck out to him, brought an unbearable ache to his heart, even fifteen years later.

He doesn't want to talk to his mother. 

But he doesn't think he's relieved when instead of her voice he hears, "Kid?" 

Gil. Gil had a key, too. Gil would never have used his key unless he thought Malcolm was dead.

Malcolm wishes he was dead.

"Kid, are you okay in there? Malcolm? You have to answer me, or I'm coming in."

Always so worried for him. Always there for him.

And yet, part of the reason for all of this new pain in the first place. 

Malcolm opens his mouth, and closes it again. He doesn't make a sound. He doesn't think he's spoken in days, and he doesn't want to start now. He never wants to speak again.

The door is pushed open, and Gil is kneeling beside him. 

"Oh, God, Malcolm," he whispers, and Malcolm closes his eyes. 

Gil wets a wash cloth with warm water and cleans the dried blood away, dabbing the wounds gently.

"You don't need stitches," he says. He takes the box of razors and tucks it away in his pocket like he's not full aware Malcolm will just buy more. "That's good. I'm proud of you." 

Malcolm promised Gil he wouldn't do it like that again. He wanted to, always wants to, but he can't. He promised. 

Gil covers them with antibiotic ointment, covers each and every one with bandaids, and then sits beside him.

"What can I do?" he asks.

Malcolm just leans over, resting his head on Gil's shoulder.

"You don't have to be strong all the time, kid," Gil says. "You can ask for help. God, you could have called me over. You _know_ that."

Malcolm doesn't know what kind of help he needs. He doesn't know if anything or anyone in the world _could_ help him.

Maybe this.

Maybe Gil.

He just wants to be held, he thinks. 

He gets closer. Gil's smart enough to understand, and he turns to wrap his arms around Malcolm, lifting him up.

"Couch?" he asks, and Malcolm nods. Gil carries him there, sits down, and cradles Malcolm close to him.

Malcolm sighs. He relaxes even more, burying his face in Gil's chest. 

"What's wrong, kid? Huh?" Gil rubs his arms, kisses the top of his head. "You can talk to me. I love you, you know that, right?”

Malcolm nods again. More than anything, he knows Gil loves him. It's the one and only constant in his life, the only thing he can count on time and time again.

"I should…" he finally mumbles, starting to pull away, and Gil holds him tighter.

"I don't have anywhere to be," Gil says. "If this is what helps, let me help you. Please. It's the least I can do, kid."

Malcolm hesitates, and then slowly relaxes again, closing his eyes. 

There's something, he thinks, down beneath all the emptiness. Something only Gil can bring out.

Something good. Something that makes him feel he can breathe again, even if just for the night, just for the _moment._

At last, there's something.


End file.
